Isilmo, WitchKing of Angmar
by Lleian
Summary: On the Witch King of Angmar and his wife. Their downfall and deaths and ultimately his resurrection.


Numenor-The Second Age

The horizon was perfectly motionless, swathed in the shimmering haze of the searing afternoon. The woman beside Kishara was, as well, unchanging and unmoving, a flawless effigy carved from pale granite. Kishara, who was less of a marble sculpture than her sister-in-law, found it difficult to remain so still and every movement she made, whether an adjustment of an elbow or blinking of an eye, sent a ripple of disruption out around her, like a pebble dropped in a pool, and creased Telperien's face of stone with a small indignant frown.

The expected disturbance on the horizon was finally discerned among the haze, albeit after many hours of tense silence between Kishara and Telperien and much discomfort on Kishara's part. Kishara's spine ached from perching on the wooden chair for so many hours and she was constantly reminded of why she disliked the blunt, passionless woman beside her, settled on her richly cushioned throne.

Kishara watched eagerly as the horsemen approached the palace from the south, coming from Hyarnustar. She smoothed her dress, patted her jewels, as Telperien sat disinterestedly, her diadem askew, fiddling with her rings.

The riders arrived what seemed to be much later and were immediately brought to the queen, sitting on her throne on the highest veranda. Kishara smiled as they paid their respects to Telperien, Queen of Numenor.

As the men rose from their bows, Isilmo winked at Kishara. She responded with a coquettish turn of her head and a knowing smirk, grey eyes gleaming mischievously.

"Brother," Telperien addressed Isilmo, "did you bring anything back with you?"

He proffered the queen his hand, showing her a heavy ring on his finger. He jerked his hand away when she tried to wriggle it off his finger.

"The ring was given specifically to the Lord of Angmar, which I am. It is for me and my heirs only."

Telperien scoffed. "'Tis only a ring. I have jewels aplenty, Isilmo. You are dismissed."

He turned on his heel and strode off down a corridor, his men following him. Kishara swiveled to ask Telperien permission to leave, but was dismissed as well before she could inquire. She dashed off after her husband and reached him as he was turning the corner, heading in the direction of her chambers.

"Ah, I was hoping she would send you soon." He stooped for a kiss, the first in weeks.

She led him to her rooms, where he fell into a chair, sighing with fatigue. He twisted the ring around and around as she removed his heavy boots, his belt from which his sword was hanging, his gauntlets, and breastplate, and finally the long shirt of chainmail. He stretched, appreciating the new lightness of only his linen tunic and breeches.

She sat down across from him on a stool by the empty hearth and watched him as he rolled the ring in his hands and examined the glyphs engraved on it.

"Isilmo…" Kishara said, biting her lip. "What is this ring?"

He smiled, slipping the ring carefully back onto his finger before looking up at her. "It is a ring of power. One of the few that were made. It will give me power, more than Telperien has."

"Telperien is queen…" Kishara cautioned him, checking the door was shut tightly. Treason was rewarded with death, a punishment Telperien was not shy of giving out.

"Yes, I know," he said shortly. "But I should be king. Everyone knows it; everyone in Numenor knows that I am the rightful king and that she is a pretender…an usurper, as it is."

"Please, Isilmo, let's not do this again…"

He looked at her angrily. "I am the first-born son," he reminded her. "There are many that are loyal to me, Kishara, they would take my part and with this ring my crown is within reach. I could be king by next week, if all goes well. You, of everyone, hates Telperien as much as I do."

Kishara hesitantly nodded her head, wary about the conversation.

"She is inadequate as queen. She cares little for her people. She does not have the education that I have. Hell, even you have a better education than her and you were born a commoner. She never had any mind for learning and Father cared little about whether she had competent tutors or not considering she was only a daughter. She can neither strategize in a war nor lead her men into battle. And she will never have heirs. She will never marry."

"Isilmo, this is the way things were meant to be. When she dies, our son will be king."

He took her hand, pressing it between his, and kissed her cheek. "You know you want this as much as I do. When you married me, didn't you do so in the belief that one day you would be queen of Numenor? Didn't your father think he was marrying you to a future king?" He knelt in front of her, meeting her eyes. "My Lady of Angmar, don't you want to be queen? Queen Kishara…"

She beamed at the name and conceded that, yes, she would like to be called that. She would like to sit on Telperien's throne. She would like to say, "My husband, the king," and to dish out favors and gifts to her people who would call her "my most generous queen" and "my fairest, kindest ruler."

Kishara clasped his hands in hers and giggled. "I would make a most wonderful queen, would I not?"

"Of course," he assured her. "You would the most beautiful, charitable, perfect queen Numenor ever had. And I would be the most just and powerful king yet." He kissed her hands and stood, pulling her to her feet as well.

"My love," she said tenderly, caressing his cheek.

Isilmo spun her around once gleefully, laughing, then, pulling her close, kissed her lovingly.

Kishara drew back and looked at her husband. After ten years of marriage and six children, they loved each other as they had during their long courtship, monarchs or not.

He had worn the ring on his finger everyday for ten months. Indeed, Kishara did not believe he ever took it off, even at night. Isilmo spent hours each day diligently examining the ring, reviewing his plot to overthrow his sister, the chosen monarch, going over everything until it was flawless and nearly foolproof. He paced incessantly, so much so that Kishara cautioned him not to tread a hole through the carpet; he disregarded her joke. He received secret letters and went on secret trips with his most trusted groom. He never told her one word of what he was doing.

Her eyes snapped open as she felt a weight settle on her bed. Isilmo was sitting beside her clad in his nightshirt and was wearing, she despaired to realize, the ring on his finger. He glanced at her, seeing that she was awake.

Her pale face was framed by her long blonde tresses and she reminded him of an iridescent pearl beneath the dark red cover. Isilmo grasped her ghostly hand, sighing.

"It will be done tomorrow."

Kishara's lips parted as if she would say something, but she only gazed at him quizzically, not comprehending and frightened by his deadly solemnity.

"We will finally be rid of Telperien. You shall be queen and we will be king."

"We?" Kishara asked, propping herself up on her elbows.

Isilmo did not answer, only absently touched the ring and stared soberly out the window at the pearlescent moon. She plucked at his sleeve, drawing his eyes back to her. When he looked at her, she saw their glazed expression and how they slid across her face without truly seeing her.

"Isilmo?"

He smiled gently, clasping one of her small hands in both of his, tracing negligent circles in her palm.

He leaned over the soft pillows and kissed her forehead, not meeting her eyes, the eager grey eyes which searched his face confusedly. She bit her lip, saying nothing, and Isilmo stood and left, shutting the bedchamber door behind him quietly.

Kishara wrapped the blankets tighter and reached for the curtain cord, extinguishing the light of the moon from her bed.

The following day was hot and hazy and Kishara, distracted, tried to behave as usual to avoid the suspicions of Telperien. In the afternoon, as the sun scorched the grass outside, Kishara sat in Telperien's presence chamber clumsily embroidering handkerchiefs as the queen vigorously fanned herself. Kishara's hands trembled and her sewing was sloppy, the flowers and initials indistinguishable. Sighing, she began to pick the stitches out so that she could restart when she was calmer.

The door was opened and she started, expecting to see a soldier stomping in to take the unsuspecting queen as prisoner, but it was only a maid with icy lemonade and comfits bore on a silver tray.

Telperien accepted the drink, but refused the small cakes and fruit, observing that it was simply too hot to eat.

When the maid had left, Kishara and Telperien were alone again.

"I wonder what my brother is doing in this heat." The queen held her hand to the cool glass of lemonade then pressed her hand to her forehead.

"He is hunting with some men."

"What are they after?"

"A stag," Kishara lied, imagining that Isilmo was even then approaching the palace with hundreds of armed men. She could feel the cold blade of the dagger against her skin that she had tucked into her sleeve as a precaution. She had protection if the fighting got out of control and safety if it looked like Isilmo would lose. She would kill Telperien herself if that is what it came to.

A guard shouted somewhere outside and Kishara stabbed her finger with the needle. Telperien, however, did not react. Several more voices joined the guard's. Kishara longed to go look out of the window.

"I wonder if the rebels have begun their attack." Telperien said this offhandedly, taking another sip of her drink.

Kishara did not realize at first what her sister-in-law had said. "I do no-…Rebels?" she questioned innocently.

The queen smiled wryly. "Your husband's rebels," she said evenly, almost nonchalantly. "I do find it hard to believe that my brother would betray me so, but I had a full confession from several of his friends."

Kishara, abandoning any pretense of ignorance, asked, "You know?"

Telperien snorted. "While your husband may not accept it, I am queen and many owe their allegiance to me. He has sought to usurp my throne, to take what is rightfully mine. I am left with no choice but to protect myself. I am fully prepared to destroy Isilmo and his army of rebels."

"How?" Kishara demanded, setting aside the sewing and perching on the end of her seat.

"I have tripled the number of palace guards and forewarned them to expect an attack during the third hour after midday. Have no fear Kishara, we are well protected inside the castle. After all, what is mine I keep."

"Isilmo…"Kishara gasped. "Tell your men to spare him."

Telperien looked at her angrily. "The punishment for treason is death, as you know. I am still considering your execution. Your son, my heir, I will raise to be king and protect him from the embarrassment his traitor parents will bring on his house."

Kishara stood and jerked open the door with a horrified glance at the queen. She fled down the corridor, servants stepping out of her way. She a corner and tore into the nursery.

The nurses rose and curtsied as she entered, seeming startled. She stared around the room, at the disorder of toys and clothes and the tiny cradle containing her smallest daughter bundled in white lace. Her eldest son, barely a boy of four, came to her and she clasped him to her. Minastir kissed her cheek and she inhaled his scent of soap and grass and clean clothes.

"My darling," she whispered.

His elder sisters were struggling over their lessons, deciphering letters and strenuously copying script. Her younger son, a fat toddler at two, was being cooed over by an indulgent nurse as he pulled her hair and earrings and poked her eyes. The baby whimpered and a nurse rushed to rock her back into contentment.

Of her six children, she held her most precious to her, face pressed in his hair.

Then, recalling why she had fled Telperien, she pulled away from her son and, after kissing all her babies, dashed from the nursery in the direction of the front doors.

She jerked the doors open and ran to the edge of the stone walkway surrounding the palace. The fight had started while she had been with her children. The rebels had launched their attack to find themselves outnumbered and outsmarted. Many had fled and still more had been slaughtered.

A guard saw her scanning the field below her searching for Isilmo in the chaos and came up behind her, grasping her elbow to lead her back inside.

"My lady, please, you must return inside. Tis not safe out here."

Kishara scoffed. "I will be beheaded for treason anyway. You see, I knew my husband was going to attack and said nothing. I was an accomplice through my silence."

He pulled her to the door, but Kishara struck him across the face. He released her for a moment.

"You must spare him. Isilmo must be spared."

He once again reclaimed her elbow in a firm grip and attempted to force her back inside the palace.

"Listen to me! Spare the Lord of Angmar!"

"What is this?" Another guard had approached while they had been struggling. He was grasping his sword in his right hand, the visor of his helmet lifted to reveal dark blue eyes.

"Lady Angmar wishes to save his lordship." The guard clutching her suddenly dropped her arm and she followed his eyes.

The new guard, fresh from the battlefield, stuttered, "My lady, it was orders. We were to kill Lord Angmar before anyone else and present proof that he is dead."

He sheathed his sword and tried to hide his left hand behind his back. Kishara stared silently at the head of Isilmo. The guard was holding him by his hair and his face was streaked with blood.

Sympathetically, he reached out to take her hand, but thought better of it.

Kishara smiled at him. "It is not your fault. It is your duty as a soldier to serve the queen. Take my husband's head to her so that she can know that her brother is dead. As for me, I do not plan on parting company with my head. Send my children my love."

There was glint of metal as she slipped the dagger from her sleeve. She gripped the hilt, studded with sapphires and diamonds, and angled the blade toward her heart. The guard unencumbered by her husband's head caught her as she fell.

Isilmo felt a terrible amount of heat filling his body, flames lapping at him viciously. The pain abated and he stood, staring around at his dim surroundings. The memory of a raised sword came back to him.

"Our king,"

Isilmo spun to see several wraiths bowing before him.

He gestured for them rise.

He had been resurrected in his proper position: as a king. He would have felt satisfied, even happy, but for a noticeable absence.


End file.
